


dramaturgy

by tommyinnit



Series: saline solution to all your problems [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Toby Smith | Tubbo Needs a Hug, fuck smp!dream, no beta we die like vilbur, no one died tho lmao, quackity is trying his best, tommy is only really mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:01:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28127295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tommyinnit/pseuds/tommyinnit
Summary: self-indulgent angst of the ending of Tubbo's most recent stream.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Jschlatt & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit
Series: saline solution to all your problems [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2060574
Comments: 4
Kudos: 87





	dramaturgy

Straining his eyes against the disintegrating rubble where mellow red spills from the setting sun and unto abused debris, the taut string of anxiety and fear is pulled thin again as if a test of its strength, only a little bit away from snapping into two.

Though often enjoying the morose beauty of a demolition site, there’s nothing he could feel but the all-consuming urge to puke as he stared at pock marks from explosions, sickening him into a nauseated state. He didn’t even feel angry nor sad, just utterly lost and confused. In the ruins, there wasn’t any beauty. All he saw was the bitter taste of violence and unquenchable rage.

Not even sure if what he’s witnessing was in fact real, he stumbled backwards, letting choked gasps substitute for words he didn't have the vocabulary to even say. There was nothing he could even say to truly grasp the miasma of emotions that enveloped his small frame almost like describing an imaginary colour. Consternation contorts his visceras with a blunt knife, stabbing at him with dismay till even focusing on anything else was impossible. His entire world was just the despair that once was his friend’s home, and the swallowing pit of grief.

Tubbo looks up and notices a tall tower consisting of dirt and wood erected amongst the rubbles, catching the dying sunlight as it reaches high into the ether. It’s not Tommy’s signature architecture - he builds ugly towers or bridges out of cobblestone, not dirt - and it seems mostly unharmed by any explosions despite being in range, which illustrates a very telling picture.

A dagger twists in the back of his throat upon the realisation of what truly must have happened. They were both so fucking scared of following in their footsteps that they’ve both lost sleep to it, but it’s the only logical conclusion because Wilbur’s a fucking ghost and no one else would have a motive to do something as devastating as this; Tommy did this to himself.

Wilbur mentioned that Tommy was sad and hated being in Logstedshire, and knowing Tommy, he’d destroy anything he hates if he gets the opportunity to. It’s not too far too assume that he’d - even as upsetting and disgusting it is to even just fucking fathom the thought of it, it’s the only logical explanation to what he’s witnessing - blow it all up and joined Wilbur’s side.

The only thing he hoped is that he isn’t actually dead, but there’s no one up on that tower and there's no perceivable way down. Ghostbur’s not even around to tell him what happened.

Tubbo finally understood what it meant to feel loss.

Film tends to romanticise reality - Tubbo had assumed he’d just feel sad and the feeling will eventually pass over, but nothing had truly prepared him for the harrowing turbulence that was his battered heart.

There is not a single word, concept or idea to even begin to explain the pure despair that tore him apart. Tubbo’s world has caved in and into an abyss. The taut string that was held tight and taunted violently snapped. He felt as delicate as glass, brimming in anguish that threatened to break him until he disintegrated into little shards. Tears overflow and drip from his chin and unto the grass beneath. All he felt was an insurmountable misery that not even hard narcotics could numb him to. A void opened up in his chest cavity and gently trashed his tattered heart into nothing but bloody red pulp.

Pain would be a good word to describe it. An excruciating pain that not even this child soldier twice died could ever fucking being to conceptualise even in his darkest moments. Tubbo gasped for air, weeping as the tears spilled from his eyes, staining his hands with every saline solution that left his tear duct. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think, and he’d had his guts twisted and knotted to the point he might as well had been dead.

He didn’t even get to fucking tell Tommy that he was sorry. He didn’t even get to tell Tommy how much he meant to him. Tommy died alone, hateful and miserable thinking that everyone hated him. Regrets start to seep from between his gritted teeth like losing consciousness. He should have visited Tommy at least once because now there’s not even a piece of him left to even hold a funeral for.

He just wanted to scream at the godless abyss that is the heavens above. Scream until his lungs stop working and shrivel up like a punctured balloon, but the words just don’t come out. His circuits blew and he’s left to recover from everything he’s had to witness, barely even anchored to reality to even begin to process what’s before him.

Tubbo, overcome with pure agony, fell to his knees and wept till morning came.

It’s been exactly sixty-two hours, twenty-eight minutes and thirty two seconds since he discovered the wreckage.

Surreality blends in with reality, lending his perception montone lens that casts his land in a shadow, and his pride in shame. Guilt cradles him like a newborn child, and Tubbo has lost all will to even resist the remorse anymore. In these fleeting hours, he’d grown a crippling dependence on caffeine with dark coffee being the only thing he’s ingested in the past thirty-six hours. Disregarding his total neglect of sleep, Tubbo’s limbs were as heavy as concrete, only moving to cusp his face.

Tubbo could still feel the tear stains on his face. He still felt as disorientated as he did when he stumbled backwards from the remains of Logstedshire. In his bones, he knows it’s not his fault, but in his blood he pleads guilty for being the very motivator for Tommy’s demise.

Every time he closes his eyes, his stupid face fills his mind. Tommy’s loving image haunts him. That strawberry blonde hair that nestled against his shoulders late at night, those cerulean blue eyes that could substitute for the sky, and that dumb smile he’d flash whenever they got into trouble together. The way he’d comedically light up whenever he saw a baby slime or when praised. Now it only lives on in polaroids and his memories.

Tubbo feels conned. Tommy never deserved this. He didn’t brave through all those wars, Wilbur’s emotional abuse, and all those deaths for his end to be in a fucking casket dolled up with daisies. Tommy didn’t even like daisies. He didn’t even get the chance to live again as a ghost like Wilbur did. All he could do for him was to bury him with full honours.

Tubbo sighs. He just wants the world to go away.

The burial site was much more serene than the last one he’d attended, with birds pinned up on old oak trees, the shade omitting a large portion of light with the remaining morning light fluttering upon the L’Manberg flag draped atop his casket. Tubbo had commissioned Sam to construct the burial site, and it was worth every gem given. Bushes of roses lined the peripherals of the site, with the paths leading into it made of cobblestone per Tubbo’s request.

Fortunately, there wasn’t a repeat of what had transpired during the last funeral. No urine was shed nor did anyone toy around with Tommy’s remains, but then again there really wasn’t any remains to play with. He’d gotten a colourful bouquet of pity, with five people repeating the same phrase to him in a row, and the rest reassuring him that Tommy’s in a better place now despite Wilbur’s contrasting statements on neither Heaven nor Hell existing. He wishes there was though so that he could be thrown down into Hell to atone.

Tubbo was the only other person to stay around after the funeral had concluded. Quackity stayed a little longer to leave a white rose upon his casket, and approached Tubbo.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Tubbo. We all knew he meant a lot to you.”

Tubbo slumps against the oak tree. “Yeah. It’s all so - messed up. Tommy didn’t deserve this at all. I really screwed the pooch now, haven’t I?”

“Dude. No. There was nothing you could have done to prevent this. Tommy wouldn’t want you to-”

Racked with guilt and shame, he can’t stand to look at anyone in the eyes anymore. They shouldn’t be treating him this politely. “I exiled him, and he died alone. To suicide. And I’m supposed to be his best friend.”

“Tubbo.” Quackity drags the last vowel in his name out, somehow dismayed that he’s taking the blame for what he’s contributed to. “What you did was for the country. You could not have predicted that he would’ve taken his own life.”

“But I should’ve.”

“No, no one can. No one did. And besides, you didn’t even want to exile him.”

Tubbo didn’t even know why Quackity was still trying to even convince him that he didn’t play a part in Tommy’s demise. “But I still did.”

“Because Dream forced you to. He’s always been fucking- like, pulling the strings to manipulate every situation ever, man. If you want to avenge Tommy, you should look at Dream, not you.”

“Oh, shut up about Dream already.” Tubbo sighs. He understands that Quackity’s dedicated to eliminating Dream, but even preaching it now when Tubbo’s barely in the right headspace to even think just felt a little too didactic for his tastes. “Even if Dream did pull the strings or whatever you said - I still made the executive decision to exile Tommy. I’m also at fault here.”

“Tommy wouldn’t-”

Tubbo snaps. “Tommy died _hating_ me.”

Quackity’s eyes widened before slowly recovering how bitter Tubbo was, resuming his debating posture. “How would you know that?”

“Because I know Tommy. He hates anyone who he thinks’ wronged him. I exiled him. Surely he’d blame me for not being able to see his friends again.”

“But maybe he didn’t, Tubbo!”

“Maybe you should stop being so optimistic and assuming you know everything about him!”

The few birds perched among the old oak trees had flown away, frightened into flight by Tubbo’s loud yelling. Quackity just stood still, his eyes wide and mouth left without words, an impressive feat for someone who never ceased to shut up. It felt nice to scream at someone, but then the guilt came crashing down on his parade afterwards.

“I’m- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m just really angry.”

“It’s fine, Tubbo. I really shouldn’t have overstepped there.” Quackity smiles, trying to downplay what Tubbo had just done. “That was entirely my fault.”

“Don’t be, Big Q. I should be the one apologising, really.”

“No, no, no, no. Dude, it’s genuinely fine. It’s just really rare to hear you screaming.” Quackity laughs. “Just know that I’m always here for you, Tubbo.”

Tubbo smiles. “Thank you, Quackity.”


End file.
